


Bal des Ardents

by QuickYoke



Category: Sasameki Koto
Genre: Bullying, Eventual Smut, F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ushio's life before, during, and immediately after the events of the manga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bal des Ardents

**Author's Note:**

> for Surabhi

_bal des ardents - French, literal translation: “ball of the burning men.” A Parisian masquerade ball held in 1393, in which dancers were lit on fire by a spectator’s torch and burned to death._

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _“I was nineteen_
> 
> _and we danced, Father, we orbited._
> 
> _We moved like angels washing themselves._
> 
> _We moved like two birds on fire.”_
> 
> _-Anne Sexton “How We Danced”_

 

* * *

* * *

 

On the walk home from school they dump a bucket of water on her head. She hears the chorus of laughter, but they scamper off before she can catch sight of them, so she continues on her way, squelching in her soaked shoes, every step taken in a silent stunned haze. Her only consolation is the summer heat, which presses the shirt to her back where it clings, sticks. All around her the humidity shimmers in the air like smoke. A trickle of tepid muddy water slips down her neck.

Nothing has evaporated by the time she arrives at home. Mechanically she opens the humble front door, enters, shuts it behind her.

“Welcome back!” her father’s voice sings out from the kitchen.

When she doesn’t return the customary greeting, he peers into the hallway wearing his wife’s flowery pink apron, expression puzzled. Taking in her appearance -- her muck-splattered hair, her drenched clothing, her shocked gaze -- his eyes widen. “Ushio, what happened?”

She is twelve years old. She is standing in the atrium, dripping mud onto the white tiles. She bursts into tears.

In the time it takes for him to interpret the full story through her hitched sobs, her mother has pulled into the driveway in the blue family sedan. Norio jumps out of the passenger seat having been picked up from high school, and their conversation ceases the moment they walk through the front door to find Ushio crying into her father’s shoulder.

Hearing the condensed version from her father, Ushio’s mother turns her wrist over to check her watch. “The school should still be open. Norio, stay with your sister.”

With a nod of acceptance, Norio drops his bag on the floor and takes his father’s place. He pats Ushio’s back. As their parents pull away in the car, the tyres screech.

“Hey,” Norio leans back, ducking his head to flash his sister a warm smile. “How about I tell you a story while you take a nice bath?”

Sniffling, Ushio wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands, and nods. Norio kneels down to take off her soiled shoes and socks before he leads her to the upstairs bathroom, ushering her inside with a gentle hand on her shoulder. A twist of silvered taps, and water streams into the small box-like tub occupying one corner of the bathroom. As soon as it’s full he tests the temperature then stands, shaking his hand dry.

“I’ll be sitting just outside,” he assures her, and parts with a kiss to the top of her head in spite of the gunk caked there.

The sliding door remains open just a fraction, admitting the sound of his voice. She can see as well as hear the fold of his long legs as he sits on the floor, back to the wall, facing away from the bathroom. With unsteady hands Ushio undresses herself, peeling the layers of clothing off like a second skin. The material slaps to the floor in a wet heap.

“Where did we leave off last time?” Norio’s disembodied voice asks.

Ushio doesn’t wince as she sinks into the scalding water. She is small enough to extend her legs out fully, but still she curls her knees up to her chest and hugs them tight. The tips of her hair dip into the water. Mud sloughs from her. Heat sinks in. “Etsuko just asked Hana to go to the carnival with her.”

Norio responds with a contemplative hum. “Of course. How could I forget?”

To the sound of his voice -- the happy romantic tale he weaves a sea of lilies and laced fingers and longing gazes -- she slowly unfurls. Threads of steam uncoil from the water’s surface. Among the glimmers of light reflected on the walls, on the pale ceiling, Ushio slips her head beneath the water’s heat, and the world simmers to a low distant murmur.

 

* * *

 

The rumours first begin early in her middle school career. In the hallways classmates eye her askance as she hangs on her best friend’s arm, engaged in an animated discussion about the movie they had seen together over the weekend. She doesn’t notice the whispers haunting their steps, but Yuki shrugs her off.

When Ushio blinks up at her in confusion, Yuki’s eyes flicker from side to side. “I’ll -” she starts. Her voice breaks and she stammers. “I’ll meet you after school, alright? We’ll talk then.”

She turns, hurrying away, disappearing into the lunch crowd, and Ushio watches her go in utter bewilderment. Looking around, Ushio tries to think of someone else she can eat with. The wrapped bento box in her hands grows heavy. Eventually she finds herself hiding among the library stacks, stealthily manoeuvring her chopsticks with one hand while the other leafs through the pages of a well-worn book.

It’s fine, she tells herself. Comforting, even. Home has always smelled of books. The dusty finger-weary pages are both bold and neat with ink. Their jackets are sun-battered and tired. Most weekends are filled with days pouring over the study, each family member tucking their feet beneath blankets and adjusting their glasses on the bridge of their noses. Ushio is the only one who doesn’t need corrective lenses.

Give it time, they tell her laughingly. She frets over the thought until Norio points out that some frames are admittedly very cute, that she can accessorise. For now, she reads without them, swiftly, easily, voraciously.

She is caught eating her lunch by the librarian, who gives her a thorough scolding. Glumly she is made to hand over her near-empty bento, and told to collect it when she leaves. Far too soon the lunch bell rings, and Ushio wanders back to class clutching her reclaimed bento box and two new books she had checked out. The rest of the school day passes without much incident, but for the fact that Yuki -- strangely, inexplicably -- refuses to meet her eye during class.

Yuki leaves last when class ends, taking far too much time to pack away her pencil and notebook, and Ushio doesn’t trail after her from the building until hardly anyone remains to see the two of them leaving together.

“Did you have a student council meeting during lunch?” Ushio asks while they walk the oft-treaded path to Yuki’s house just a few winding blocks away.

On the corner of the empty street Yuki tenses. She stops, turns to face her. “Do you like me, Ushio-chan?”

With a perplexed smile, Ushio says, “Of course I do!”

“No, I mean -” Yuki fidgets. It’s uncharacteristic of her. “Do you _like_ me?”

The breath catches in Ushio’s chest, and there it burns like a candle cupped by her palm. Flossy midday light slants across Yuki’s figure from behind so that she looms like a torch wreathed in gold. Just looking at her makes Ushio’s mouth go dry, the bruit of her heartbeat a rapid tempo.

It would be a lie to say she hadn’t thought about this, or a scenario similar to it. In those however, Ushio is always the one to lead; she never could have imagined this change in events.

“Yes.” Even to her own ears she sounds breathless. She steps forward so that they are standing close together, looking up into Yuki’s darkened face. She had seen the movies, read the books; she knows what happens next. “I like you.”

But whatever declaration of love Ushio had been expecting never comes. Panic flares in Yuki’s eyes, bright as a scratched matchstick. Hands shoot out, and Yuki shoves her away so that Ushio stumbles on her heels and falls to the ground. Beneath her the pavement roughs the soft underside of her legs, while above her Yuki glares reproachfully down.

“You shouldn’t joke like that!” Yuki tries to smile, but it’s weak and it falters when she sees the raw hurt blooming on Ushio’s face. “You’re my best friend, but I couldn’t possibly -!”

“But -?”

As Ushio reaches out, Yuki slaps her hand away with a hissed, _“Disgusting.”_

Vision blurring with tears, Ushio hears the scrape of shoes as Yuki turns and strides away, leaving her behind. Ushio swallows back the whimper in her throat, fixing her expression into some semblance of uncrumpled calm, but it takes her a few more moments to push herself upright. When she does so, her knees shake and there are tiny bits of gravel stuck to her thighs. She sniffles, brushes herself clean, and walks home.

 

* * *

 

The next day at school Yuki avoids her entirely, and Ushio soon learns how to better conceal eating lunch in the library.

 

* * *

 

It is almost bearable for a time, the bullying. At least she has Norio’s gentle-tongued stories. At least she has her parent’s outrage on her behalf. They harangue the school administration and other parents to the best of their abilities. Even her sweet-tempered father fires up in her defence when he catches three boys throwing rolls of toilet paper over the branches of the tree outside their house, chasing them down the street and demanding to know who their parents are.

One weekend their parents head off to visit their grandmother. They take the car. They warn Norio to look after his younger sister, even though he is technically an adult and has been babysitting her for years. They promise to ring when they arrive at their destination.

Norio is entering his first year of university and trying to grow a beard. Ushio teases him about it, scrunching up her face and squealing whenever he retaliates by rubbing his scratchy whiskers on her cheeks. They laugh while he tries and fails to cook dinner, and in the end he buys something off the take-away menu taped to the side of the fridge -- he has always been a terrible cook. As he dials the number on the faded yellow pamphlet, he holds a finger to his lips and mouths, “Don’t tell mom!” In response Ushio mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key.

Before he can finish dialling, they hear the wail of sirens streak down the road. Shrugging and peering out the window, Norio puts the receiver to his ear.

It isn’t until hours later, when a crisp autumnal dusk dips the sky in lavender hues, when they receive a call from their grandmother asking if their parents had left the house yet, that they realise something is terribly wrong.

 

* * *

 

The funeral is cosy and tasteful. The pews remain uncrowded all through the ceremonies. Their parents were liked by many but loved by few. Ushio doesn’t own anything black -- she never thought the colour suited her -- but she wears a sombre dress and a brave face for the occasion. All the while her grandmother flanks her stiffly on one side, while Norio holds her hand on the other in a near painful grip.

He stares straight ahead at the open coffins until it is his turn to approach the pulpit and deliver a few words. When that time comes, Ushio has to squeeze his fingers to get his attention; he doesn’t seem to have heard his cue. From her place in the front row she can see the thin red line at his jaw from when he had accidentally cut himself with a shaking hand shaving earlier that morning. Hearing his voice crack during the speech, Ushio is grateful she is too young to be expected to do the same.

Their grandmother puts all of her own affairs on hold in order to move in with them. “It’s just for a few months,” she says as she wraps their parent’s personal items in crinkled paper and stores them neatly in boxes for storage. “Just until you two can stand on your own feet.”

“Thank you,” Norio sighs. He kneels beside her to help pack everything away.

From the side Ushio handles one of her mother’s porcelain figures, turning it over with utmost care. In the past she would have been reprimanded for daring to hold them, but now nobody says a word, and the furnace-bright edges beneath her fingers are smooth and cool to the touch. “Why are we hiding away all their stuff?”

“You can’t stay here,” their grandmother answers, as blunt and matter-of-fact as always, if not more so than usual. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to afford to keep the house, even with my help.”

 

At the sudden well of tears springing to Ushio’s eyes, her grandmother pauses. She reaches over and pries the porcelain from Ushio’s clumsy fingers. “Don’t worry,” she says, and her old voice has gentled somewhat. “We’ll find you two a nice apartment nearby.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Ushio returns from school nearly two weeks have passed. The teacher takes her aside before class starts and informs her of all the catch-up work she must endure from her extended absence. He tells her he is very sorry for her loss. She has heard the words so often of late, they all sound hollow. Nodding mutely, Ushio takes the stack of papers he hands her and makes her way over to her desk.

Without her presence there to keep the grapevine at bay, the rumours have only grown more vitriolic, spreading like wildfire. Nobody talks to her but to corner her after school and hound her with lewd rapid-fire questions. Other girls refuse to change around her during gym, complaining that they saw her watching them undress. Aren’t they right? Ushio wonders, doubting herself. Doesn’t she look at them? Doesn’t she openly admire the girl from 2-A with the sleek shoes and the sleeker hair?

She tries to place when it all became so routine. The bits of paper lobbed at the back of her head during lectures. The messages stuffing her small square locker to the brim. The prank calls to their landline so frequent, Norio disconnects it and buys them each a cheap cell phone, cautioning her on who she gives out the number to. The crude ink scrawled across her desk, rubbing it clean with a rag and a blank expression before trudging to the library for lunch. The missing shoes. The missing or broken umbrellas on a stormy day. The hateful words whispered behind hands as she walks through the hallways. She holds the tears at bay until she can reach the safety of her new apartment. She grows accustomed to biting her tongue when she wants to speak to a girl. She becomes familiar with masks.

At home Norio has dropped out of university to pursue a full-time writing career. Ushio is his first and biggest fan. To her absolute delight on the side he continues writing in the same vein as the stories he tells to cheer her up. Back at the old house they would have celebrated something as momentous as his first meagre author’s cheque by hosting a sock-slide competition on the narrow polished wooden floors. Now instead the two of them don the maid costumes sent from his work and dance to the blare of the radio from small crackling speakers. The sight of Norio in fishnet stockings makes Ushio double over with laughter, and he admires himself in the mirror, claiming with a grin that surely he would get more dates if he wore this every day.

Their newfound boisterous attitude is broken up by their grandmother’s arrival. Balancing a bag of groceries in one hand, her eyebrows climb to her hairline at the sight of them. Rather than remark on it, she merely shakes her head and weaves around them to the kitchen, where she starts dinner.

“Maybe you could get yourself a hot date too, Ushio,” her brother teases with a roguish grin. He waggles his eyebrows for good measure. “If you’re lucky she’ll look as good in this as I do.”

“Ushio,” their grandmother calls out sharply. “Come help me make dinner.”

Sticking her tongue out at her brother, Ushio complies. The remainder of the evening is entirely uneventful, though she and Norio continue to wear the maid costumes while they eat. Later, when she heads off to sleep after cramming her head full of homework until her hand cramps around the pencil, Ushio overhears the two of them talking.

“You shouldn’t encourage her like that.” Their grandmother’s voice is interspersed with the clink of cutlery as she dries dishes. “Filling her head with childish fantasies won’t do her any good.”

Norio’s reply sounds as waspish as Ushio had ever heard it. Normally he isn’t one to lash out. “Her _childish fantasies_ inspire me. They make me money.”

The opening and closing of a creaky cupboard door. Their grandmother scoffs. “All that talent of yours, and for what! Writing queer nonsense! I’ve read it -- oh, don’t look so shocked! It’s rubbish. In the real world nothing is like that.”

“In the real world -” he replies, voice low, “-for her they’re not just fantasies.”

Their grandmother doesn’t seem to have a retort for that. For a long breathless moment, the only thing Ushio can hear is the rustle of a dishtowel being folded and her own wide-eyed heartbeat. The burning sensation in her chest rises up to her throat, threatens to break open and spill out.

Finally, their grandmother snaps, “Would you change out of that ridiculous outfit already?”

 

* * *

 

When Ushio returns home one day with a black eye, her brother and grandmother decide to have her move schools. Under cross-examination by both the school and her relatives, Ushio refuses to tell who it was that had struck her. She tells them she tripped on the stairwell. She lies. She isn’t very good at it -- lying.

“You shouldn’t protect them,” Norio insists, brows furrowed, his normally open face thunderous. “You shouldn’t be afraid of them anymore.”

Heartfelt as they are, his words don’t mean much. She is afraid. Barely six months have gone since their parents passed away, and already she feels as though she is falling apart. The edges of her singe, black and bruised.

They enrol her in another school. Big letters curve over the entrance: HIGAKI MIDDLE SCHOOL. The commute there is much longer than she is used to, but she reads books on the train. All around her the carriage rattles. Bodies press against hers during rush-hour. She turns another page. She hardly notices outward intrusions.

When she introduces herself to the new class, she can feel the many sets of eyes watching her, but their intentions lie in simple curiosity now. Seeing two boys mutter to one another at the back of the room, Ushio’s hands tremble around the handles of her bag. Over and over she reminds herself that no one here knows, that she can blend in if she smiles at the right time, if she says the right words, if she dances to the same steps.

Three girls approach her desk after class and instinctively Ushio tenses. She dons her brightest smile when they introduce themselves and ask if she wants to join them at the mall that weekend. She demurs, but graciously accepts their invitation to sit with them at lunch.

For weeks to the best of her abilities Ushio keeps up the charade. She keeps her mouth shut and offers beaming smiles to anyone who looks her way. She turns down propositions left and right from the boys in class, and avoids them altogether whenever possible. Nobody suspects. In this disguise her entrails glow like a bed of embers, but it’s enough. For now, it’s enough.

Back at home circumstances have grown more strained. Forced to re-engage her own affairs, their grandmother has moved back to her own home a few hours away, taking up her old teaching post at the local high school to refill her depleted coffers. Norio flings himself into his work, writing himself half to death with late-night deadlines every fortnight. Ushio combs a critical eye over his manuscripts for basic critiques before they are sent off. When he thinks she isn’t looking, Norio pours over his ever-dwindling bank account, his face awash with the pallid glow of the computer screen during the witching hours. She has to remind him to shave over breakfast.

In the end it is only a matter of time until she stumbles. It happens when she is eating lunch in the air-conditioned gymnasium. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes vies with the cry of cicadas in the sweltering summer heat outside. Her group of new tentative friends have taken to loitering here to avoid the humidity, but for some reason that escapes her it is considered cool to eat on the ground floor rather than safely in the mezzanine viewing platform.

A volleyball smacks the wall over their heads in a white blur, and one of their group yells out, “Hey, watch it!” before being promptly ignored. Ushio ducks her head lower to avoid any further projectiles spinning in their direction. One black eye in a month is enough.

“Did you hear? We’re getting new gym uniforms next week.”

“No way!”

“What’s wrong with the old ones?”

“Gross. The old ones are so dingy.”

“Come on. They're not that bad.”

“Look! I think Takahashi-san is wearing them now!”

As the other three chatter away Ushio keeps quiet. For weeks she had been stealing flushed covert glances at Rei Takahashi’s too-short skirt-line, tearing her gaze away when she realised what she was doing. Now she pours attention into her lunch, keeping her face downcast to avoid temptation.

“Those are cute! I like the red!”

“Aw, I was hoping for yellow…”

“What? Why yellow?”

“Yeah, yellow is terrible with my complexion.”

“I like yellow!”

“What do you think, Ushio-chan?”

Starting at hearing her name suddenly added to the conversation, Ushio blinks up, the tips of her chopsticks stuck in her mouth. “Hmm?” she hums inquisitively even though she had heard everything well enough.

“Red or yellow?” They ask, and their faces are intent as though she were answering the riddle of a three-faced sphinx.

Chewing in what she hopes is a thoughtful manner, Ushio looks over. There across the court, Rei plays volleyball with a group of others. Her movements are clumsy and graceless. On more than one occasion she fumbles with the ball, almost dropping it on her team’s side of the net. Ushio swallows as her eyes trace the line of Rei’s slender bare legs up, up, up to the shorts, red like a flame, like a matador’s flag.

“Red,” Ushio breathes. She resists the urge to bite at her lower lip, though she still can’t look away. “Definitely red.”

“See? Told you.”

“That’s not fair! Takahashi-san has always looked cute in red!”

“And now she might actually get a boyfriend.”

At the sound of her own voice, Ushio is shocked to discover she is speaking up. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend?”

Laughter.

“No. Why? Do you want to have a go?”

Rather than laugh like she knows she should, Ushio flushes. Immediately she realises her mistake.

Simultaneously the other three lean back, and their expressions have grown wintry, guarded. “You’re joking, right?”

“Ohh, now it all makes sense!”

“She _did_ turn down Ito-kun the other day.”

“Seriously?!”

Already they are talking about her as though she isn’t there. Ushio grapples for something -- anything -- to cover up her misstep, but no words spring to her mouth. Lurching to her feet, she pushes from the floor and makes a mad dash for the nearest exit. Behind her a dissonant squawk follows in her wake, since her abrupt departure overturned someone’s lunch.

Outside the air boils. The sun glares down, a lone merciless eye among the swathe of stark blue. Fleeing as fast her legs can carry her, Ushio stumbles, catches herself, and pushes onward. In the shade of an old tree leaning against the back of the main building, she finds no sanctuary but sinks down nonetheless. Her shoulder blades scrape against the rough bark, and she curls her knees to her chest, pushing her forehead down and panting.

Nobody comes around these parts during lunch. She knows. Upon her arrival at this school, she went about discretely identifying all the places she could spend her time alone. On the green not far off, a flag twists around its pole in a rare breeze. Heat envelops her. A drop of sweat forms at the base of her jaw. She grips her opposite wrists with shaking fingers and tries to swallow the feeling that all around her the kindling is piling up.

 

* * *

 

More and more often her brother’s work takes him away from home. He has tapped into a niche market, his editor claims. He is one of the very few prolific content creators they have. He uses a woman’s name that nearly matches his own spelled backwards as a pseudonym. He tries joking about it with Ushio, but she doesn’t laugh. She can’t muster up the energy to masquerade at home as well.

“I’ll just be gone for the weekend,” Norio says. He musses up her hair, and she manages to see him off with a weak smile.

Over time Ushio has learned how to cook and care for herself, how to amuse herself with books and movies and people-watching from the balcony, alone. It is a humid Sunday evening. She leans crossed forearms against the railing. In the distance lanterns glint warmly through the trees. Sparks from a bonfire mingle with smoke and rise to the muddled stars. The town has draped itself in the mid-August Obon festival, and nobody from school invited her to attend -- of course they didn’t.

She cannot see it, but she hears the beat of drums and the dull slap of feet as people parade in a traditional dance. They would be dressed all in white, she knows. They would circle the bonfire like pale ghosts. Ushio watches and waits for them to light shrieking fireworks, sending broad bursts of red and gold careening into the sky. During the sparkling display, she feels the heat creep up as the night lengthens. She admires the show of public self-immolation.

Her brother returns early from his trip that evening to find her balancing the arches of her feet on the railing, considering the long drop to the street below.

“Ushio!”

Flinging his bags to the floor, scrambling forward, he grabs her around the middle and pulls her back into the apartment. Over the scream of the fireworks she didn’t hear his return. She tries to lift her hands to scrub at her tear-streaked cheeks, but Norio is crushing her to his chest. His arms shake. When he moves away, his glasses are askew, and he smooths the hair back from her face -- again and again -- as if he can’t see enough of her, warm and there and alive.

“I’ll do anything. Anything you need. Just don’t -” His voice breaks and it’s the first time she has seen him cry since their parents died. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she says softly, guiltily. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

They both decide that the best thing to do is to move apartments. Ushio is hesitant about the idea at first, but Norio insists that a smaller place with a cheaper rent would do a world of good. “And it’s not forever,” he reminds her, stacking their cumulative mountains of books into cardboard boxes that have been reinforced with layers of duct tape. “I’ll save up while you finish school.”

A part of her is grateful. The last thing she wants is to remain at Higaki where she knows the situation will only continue to spiral downwards. Another quieter part of her balks.

New town. New school. None of that matters. The outcome would always be the same.

Their new apartment is three stories up. It was the lowest Norio could find, but it still makes him nervous -- Ushio can tell. He doesn’t say anything, but she notices the frequent way he appraises and reappraises the height of the building. When they first enter, the space seems perfect for the two of them. Ushio’s only complaint, which she keeps to herself, is that there is no bath, only a confined shower. Norio claims the loft bed above where his writing desk will sit, leaving Ushio with the only bedroom. She tries to haggle over the imparity, but he won’t hear a word of it. As soon as they start hauling all of the boxes inside however, it quickly becomes evident that the apartment may be a bit too small.

By the time they have unpacked everything, books line every spare nook and cranny. Tomes have been crammed beneath Ushio’s low-slung bed, or stacked into towers tall enough that she needs a footstool to reach them. The well-loved pages fill the air with a burnished fustian smell that makes her think of home before everything. They could have thrown some away, but many of the books have been inherited from their parents, and neither Ushio nor her brother can bring themselves to discard a single volume.

Norio lets her have an extra week to adjust before urging her to re-enter school life.

 

* * *

 

The first time Ushio sees Sumika Murasame, the two don’t really notice one another. Their gazes pass over the other faces at the bus stop. Ushio has her nose buried in a new novel, and subsequently she stumbles while climbing the steps. Life goes on and soon the bus is trundling down the street, making frequent stops to pick up more students.

She is reluctant to put her book away and re-join reality when the bus pulls up to school. With a weary sigh Ushio does so nonetheless, tucking the book inside her bag and descending the steps to the pavement below. High above her the school building dominates the landscape. A tall dark-haired girl brushes by her. Ushio tries not to fidget with her new uniform. It doesn’t quite fit properly. Norio had purchased it from a second hand supply shop in the area with an apologetic smile. “You’ll grow into it.”

Class starts and Ushio stares down the precipice of another roomful of unknowns. This is routine now. This shouldn’t be routine ever. She bows after introducing herself, and she wishes her hair didn’t feel so wild; it takes on a life of its own in warm weather, which she has tried to tame by binding it with two elastic bands.

The beginning of lunch starts off just as she had expected. Three girls approach her asking if she wants to join their group. She is a shiny new bauble for everyone to admire. Flanked by these new acquaintances she is paraded about the corridors full of ogling spectators like some sort of rare manacled zoo attraction. Everyone keeps asking her if she has a boyfriend, if she wants to go prowling for guys, and it is all she can do to smile and keep the tremor from her voice. “I’m not that interested in boys…”

Somehow they convince her to join them in town on the weekend, and Ushio attends with that old sensation sinking into her gut as if she had swallowed a glowing coal. While they walk through the crowded streets, Ushio holds herself a step behind. The others either don’t notice or they don’t care. Someone passes by heading in the other direction, and Ushio finds herself turning to look, involuntary.

A pleated skirt rustles around narrow knees. A soft leather watch circles one wrist. A flare of silky hair and alert eyes. Ushio is entranced.

It only takes a moment for Ushio to get lost in the crowd as she stops to stare. Head whipping around, she searches for the girls who had accompanied her, but they are long gone. The throng of people closes in. She tries wandering back to the station, but she has always possessed a truly abysmal sense of direction.

She must look lost because soon she is flocked by a cluster of young men offering guidance with false smiles, seeking her attention. She says nothing. She knows all too well this scrutiny, how swiftly it can turn ugly. When they start to get rowdy with one another over the possibility of her affection, one of them boasts of his skills in martial arts. Like a bolt from the blue a hand appears on his shoulder, spins him around, pins him flat on the ground with a single turn of the wrist, and suddenly Sumika’s fist is hovering a finger-width away from breaking his nose.

“Sumika!” A man -- her father -- roars from the side-lines, stern and reprimanding.

Reluctant, her expression dark, Sumika backs away, letting the ruffian up, who immediately flees with his group of cronies. When she rounds on Ushio, she squints, her glance a hard fiery glare.

“Ah -” Ushio stammers, shoulders sloping inwards. “Thank you, Murasame-san.”

For a moment Sumika just fumbles for something in her pocket, pulling out a pair of thick black-framed glasses and perching them on the bridge of her nose. “Oh! It’s the new girl!” Her face is illuminated by recognition, before her brows draw down into a frown once more. “You really shouldn’t wander around these parts by yourself. Come on. I’ll take you to the station.”

Without further preamble she takes Ushio by the hand and guides her through the crowd. Her grip is warm and firm, and she walks in such a way that people move aside for her. Ushio trots behind her in a daze. Despite Ushio’s profuse gratitude and insistent claims that she is fine from here, Sumika waits with her at the station until she is safely on her way home.

 

* * *

 

At school the confession bubbles to Ushio’s lips, unbidden. She explains to the others how she got lost, and there’s a wistful sigh in her voice when she mentions the cute girl that had distracted her. In unison all three of her new acquaintances take a step back, as though they might ignite standing so near to her. They avoid her for the remainder of the day, and would do so for the remainder of the year if experience had taught Ushio anything.

Sitting alone at her desk during lunch, Ushio is contemplating her usual tactic of concealing herself in the library, when the chair across from her scrapes back. Sumika lowers herself gracefully into the seat and begins unwrapping her bento box with nothing more than a cool and casual greeting of, “Afternoon.”

Ushio gapes at her. Casting a furtive glance at the others watching the two of them, she lowers her voice and says, “Murasame-san, you might not want to sit with me…”

“Why not?” Sumika digs out a set of plain wooden chopsticks from her bag. When Ushio’s mouth opens but no sound comes out, she continues. “I heard everything. That sort of thing doesn’t bother me. Besides, nobody will suspect us of having an illicit relationship. You said you like cute girls, right?”

As if in explanation Sumika gestures to herself, sitting composed and aloof, a picture of unflappable self-possession. She continues eating calmly as Ushio’s eyes brim with tears.

Sniffling, Ushio opens up her own lunch. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

They spend more time together, but Ushio tempers the hopeful spark living in the bellows of her lungs. Upon discovering that they live just down the road from one another, Sumika invites her over to do homework. Cautiously Ushio toes off her shoes in the entryway of the sprawling single-story home. Even so early in the day the sounds of training issue from the adjacent dojo, the rhythmic stamp of feet, the accompanied yells, the lingering tang of sweat.

Sumika’s room matches her perfectly -- clean, efficient, spartan. Ushio folds her ankles beneath her as she sits at the low table at the centre of the space. Her curious eyes find the corner of the room dedicated to personal training. Through her faded stockings the _tatami_ mats impress unfamiliar patterns on her skin.

“Sorry for the mess,” Sumika says, pulling out her notebook, her pencil, and calculator.

  
Ushio raises her eyebrows at the supposed mess -- a single dumbbell not perfectly aligned with its twin -- and she thinks that perhaps she will wait to invite Sumika over to her book-crowded apartment. “Are your parents very strict?”

A huff of laughter, and Sumika taps a few entries into the calculator with the eraser end of her pencil. “My father is all bark and no bite -- you saw him the other day -- and my mother is dead.”

“Oh.” Uncomfortable, Ushio thumbs at a corner of her own notebook, flicking her nail along the spiral-bound rings.

“It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it.” Sumika tries to wave the awkward air aside. “What about your parents?”

This is one of the few instances where Ushio can recall being asked about her family life by a classmate. Two schools ago -- where everyone knew but nobody openly discussed it -- the knowledge coupled with the intense bullying made others, usually the perpetrators, burn with guilt and shame.

“They died.” The words taste ashen on the back of her tongue. “About a year ago.”

Sumika goes very still. When Ushio finally rallies the courage to glance up at the reaction her words provoked, it is to find Sumika peering at her intently over the rim of her glasses. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

In response Ushio only gives a short wordless hum. From that point on they work on their homework in near silence. Every so often Sumika will prompt her with a question, asking if Ushio needs help with a particularly thorny equation. More often than not Ushio gratefully accepts; her strengths have always sided with literature and languages. Silently she wonders to herself if Sumika would ever require assistance with a lit paper, or if she just excels at everything.

Their studies are interrupted only twice. Once by the housekeeper, Noe, with tea and once again with an announcement for dinner. At that Ushio makes her apologies, assuming she will be politely asked to leave, but instead Sumika uncrosses her legs and stands. “Come on. There’s plenty of food. Noe always cooks too much.”

“You usually eat enough for two, Sumika,” Noe counters with a small grin.

“That’s not -!” Sumika huffs. She grabs Ushio’s hand and leads her away. “Come on, Kazama-san.”

Whereas the noise from the dojo had been muffled through the walls in Sumika’s room, the dining area is a din. Chopsticks clank against ceramic bowls in a beat steady as a blacksmith’s tools as the three identical older brother’s stuff their faces with food. The three pause only long enough to greet their sister’s guest before resuming once more. Sumika’s father is gruff and loud and very unlike his youngest child, teasing good-naturedly until his daughter growls at him, to which he only laughs, the noise large. Kindly Noe asks if Ushio wants another serving, but before Ushio can answer the meal is interrupted.

Based on their earlier interaction Ushio had guessed that Sumika must have been a skilled martial artist, but she wasn’t aware to what extent until tonight. A challenger arrives from another dojo -- Ushio thought this sort of thing only happened in fiction -- demanding a fight. Sumika’s father claims he is ill while her brothers are suddenly nowhere to be found. Sumika herself is furious at being pinned with this task.

Stomping off, Sumika dons a _gi,_ the tough-twilled fabric well-suited to her broad shoulders, and in a fit of irritation she casts her opponent to the floor. From the side-lines Ushio watches, just another bystander among many, but when she claps Sumika looks startled, pleased, and then conflicted at being pleased.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she sighs as she ushers Ushio out of the house. “You must think my home is very noisy.”

She is still wearing her _gi,_ and her glasses are presumably somewhere in her room. She has to squint to see her guest off, and the expression makes a smile tug at the corners of Ushio’s mouth; she recognises it from among her own poor-sighted family members.

“Not at all. It’s lively. I like it.” The words are in the air before Ushio can contain them. She prays Sumika can’t see the hope strangled on her face. “If -” she presses on. “If I’m a bother, just tell me. I’m used to being alone.”

Sumika’s face softens. “I would never say that.”

In spite of herself Ushio almost believes her.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you like girls?”

They are eating an early lunch at the mall in town. Lately they have spent an increasing amount of time with one another both inside and outside of school. It is the only time Ushio has seen Sumika wear casual clothes, but currently she has eyes only for a cute vibrant blonde wearing cat-print thigh-highs and ordering curry at a nearby stand. Heat mottles Ushio’s cheeks when she realises she has been caught staring, but Sumika only tilts her head, genuine and speculative.

In all her years it is the first time she has actually been asked that question. Not even Norio thought to ask, and she never gives it much consideration herself. Her first instinct is to lie. It is irrational of her. Sumika already knows her predilections. So Ushio answers as honestly as she can.

“I have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

The whole affair is inevitable, really. It was stupid of her to hope for anything. Those three-faced mean-spirited girls at school drive the rumour mill about her and Sumika. As if in penitence Ushio goes to Sumika’s house one night to present her with cookies she had baked. She would have bought a gift instead, but she can’t afford it.

Noe lets Ushio inside, greeting her with a pleasant shallow bow, which Ushio returns. She points to the dojo and explains that Sumika is at practice. Ushio wanders over to watch. She doesn’t want to just leave the cookies with a handwritten note behind in Sumika’s room. Somehow that would feel inadequate for the amount of trouble she has surely caused.

Sumika doesn’t see her enter, too engrossed in the task before her. With a stomp of her foot that sends a minor shock wave through the floor, Sumika swings her leg around in a powerful sweeping kick. Ushio watches from behind two of the brothers.

“Does she seem on edge to you?” One of them asks his twin.

The other shrugs, rubbing pensively at the day-old stubble of his jaw. “Don’t know. I wonder if it has to do with trouble at school.”

Eyes wide, hands shaking, Ushio slowly backs away before her presence is known. She leaves the cookies in Sumika’s room without a note.

 

* * *

 

The next day at school Ushio hides in the library. She doesn’t eat the lunch she had packed that morning. She doesn’t have the appetite. The thought of food makes her feel nauseous.

She is reading a book but she hasn’t turned a page in over five minutes. Her mind is consumed with the thought that somehow she has unwittingly shackled Sumika to herself in the stocks while onlookers heft blazing torches and take aim.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Ushio jumps. Looking up she sees Sumika standing over her, wearing a mighty scowl. Wilting in her seat, she mumbles, “You were angry.”

“Of course I was angry! Because you _weren’t_ angry! You’re allowed to be angry, you know!” Sumika clenches her hands into fists at her sides, and suddenly Ushio recognises this as a righteous fury. “Those girls were saying terrible things about my friend!”

Ushio stares. “Friend?” she echoes dumbly.

Sumika points first to herself then to Ushio. As the puzzled expression remains on Ushio’s face, doubt shadows her own. “Aren’t we friends?”

“I -I don’t know?”

Hand rubbing at her forehead, Sumika worries aloud. “Is there some kind of ritual we have to do? Did I miss something?” She slumps into the seat beside Ushio and sighs. Then she turns so that they are facing one another fully. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is milder. “I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me.”

Ushio shrugs and her fingers crumple the pages of the book she is still holding. “I’m sorry too.” she says. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

Shaking her head ruefully, Sumika places her hand on Ushio’s shoulder. “If you had to watch yourself like that, there’d be no point. Friends?” she adds, the word lilting into a question.

Ushio smiles. “Friends.”

 

* * *

 

“Sumi-chan! Sumi-chan! You wouldn’t believe the cute girl I saw on the street just now!”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me all about her.”

Ushio of course does just that. They are in their last year of middle school. Other classmates have grown used to Ushio, though to say they are tolerant would be a stretch. She is a talking point of the school, an ice-breaker, an isolated oddity. They don’t do more than talk about her, and she thinks that’s fine. A better situation than the past by far. She can live with this.

In any other circumstance Ushio is sure things would have taken a turn for the worse, but nobody dares to approach her with Sumika towering at her side. Sumika: her protector, her unflagging confidant, her best friend.

By now the two of them are thick as thieves. They frequent each other’s homes with a kind of daily ease that Ushio hadn’t known for far too long. Norio takes to asking after Sumika when she isn’t at their apartment, as though her absence is an unfailing shock. The two of them agree to apply to the same high schools. When they are both accepted to one, Ushio breathes a sigh of relief she hadn’t known she was holding. They will be turning fifteen soon, and for once Ushio doesn’t feel the tidal wave of dread at the prospect of attending a new school.

Class is about to start. The teacher plans his lesson on the blackboard, his palms powdered with chalk. For now, in the few sparse minutes before they must be seated, Ushio gushes and Sumika listens with a calm kind smile.

 

* * *

 

As much as she blathers about love, Ushio’s relationship with the concept in practice remains strained at best. Disastrous at worst. More on the lines of disastrous if she is being honest with herself. On more occasions than she cares to recall she has endured everything from timid rejection to outright revulsion. Yearning rakes her over the coals. Sometimes she walks across the smouldering bed of cinders herself. She learns that love of her kind is always doomed to fail. She tries again regardless. She can’t help herself.

In retrospect Ushio should have known that her post at the library was too good to be true. Nothing in life could ever be easy. A second year student works the desk with her, and Ushio is smitten from the beginning. As always she doesn’t know how to approach in any way that doesn’t involve running headlong into the waving flag, her life an arena, her classmates the jeering audience.

They work together later after class shifting books in the stacks, a daily routine. Outside the sun wavers along the horizon, its rays streaming through the tall windows and dyeing the room a radiant orange-gold. Ushio performs the task with a glum air; an argument with Sumika earlier in the day over this exact scenario putting her in a dour mood. The last thing she expects is the question aimed at her.

“Do you have someone you like, Kazama-san?”

The book Ushio was tucking away tumbles from her gasp and crashes to the floor. She whips around, thrown completely from her stride, and stammers. “Who me? I don’t -! I mean -! Now that you mention it -?”

Through her nervous babbling Ushio notices that the other girl’s hands are trembling, her eyes glossy with tears. Tentative, she reaches out to offer some form of consolation with touch, but before she can an arm whips out, batting Ushio’s wrist aside.

She stands. She is wreathed in burnt red-gold from the windows beyond, and Ushio looks up at her in wide-eyed fearful recognition. The explanation in a voice quaking with rage and tears that a boy she likes is mooning over Ushio falls on deaf ears. Ushio barely hears it; she is too busy being set ablaze.

Later when the other girl storms out, her footsteps pounding angrily against the carpeted floor, Ushio is found kneeling, stunned and wordless, in the exact same place by Sumika. Rejection shouldn't hit her so hard. She should be used to it by now. Somehow it still stings.

With a weary sigh Sumika kneels down beside her on the floor and lets her cry. The tears stop, but the hurt remains. Whatever fight the two of them had earlier in the day, it matters little now. Ushio can hardly remember what they had clashed about at all. Then, picking up both their bags, Sumika pulls her upright. She takes Ushio’s hand and walks her home.

“I’m sorry,” Ushio mumbles as they walk down the street, pace sedate. She shouldn’t feel shame at being seen in such a state. This is Sumika after all. When she hurts, she can always expect Sumika to be there.

“What for?”

Ushio’s lower lip trembles, but she inwardly reprimands herself until it goes away. “For being such a weird friend.”

“Weird _and_ silly.”

“Hey!”

With an infectious laugh, Sumika laces their fingers together. She throws a grin over her shoulder. “Oh, look! I made you smile!”

Immediately Ushio’s tries to force the corners of her mouth down, but the battle is a losing one. “You did not!”

“Mmhmm,” Sumika hums, tugs her down the street. Together they pass through the pool of light cast by a spindly lamp. “Come on. You can sleep over at my place tonight.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

Norio stumbles home late one evening. He locks the door dutifully behind him. He collapses onto his work chair, legs sprawled out along the floor, and tips his head back with a sigh. Dark circles ring his sleep-bruised eyes.

A pot of noodles boils on the stove. Sauce simmers in a pan interspersed with hunks of cooked chicken. Ushio pauses in her cooking to look at her brother. Over her school uniform she wears her mother’s old faded flower-print apron. Its corners are singed, but she keeps it all the same.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, holding a slotted wooden spoon poised over the pan so that it does not drip onto the floor.

“Everything’s fine.”

He’s lying. She can always tell when he lies. Neither of them have ever been any good at it.

Ushio sets the spoon so that it is balanced on the edge of the pan, and she walks over. Leaning her hip against the dining table she asks softly, “Are we running low on money again? I told you -- I can get a part time job at the convenience store down the road.”

“No, no. That’s not it.” Norio sits up and takes off his glasses to rub at one of his eyes. “My girlfriend dumped me.”

She blinks down at him in surprise. Then, bending over, she grasps his shoulder warmly. “Sorry. Kineta-san, wasn’t it? I rather liked her.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, putting his glasses back on. “That makes two of us.”

Ushio straightens. She returns to the tiny kitchen space a few paces away. “Dinner won’t be long.” When he only grunts in reply, she says. “Think of it this way: at least you had a girlfriend. One of us has to carry on the family line, and that’s on your shoulders.”

He lets out a bark of laughter. “You shouldn’t listen to everything grandmother says. Adoption is a perfectly legitimate option for you and your future torrid love affair.”

“Far _far_ in the future.”

 

* * *

 

Upon the arrival of two new students, their perfect little dance begins to waver. They accidentally spy on the two girls kissing in the classroom after everyone else had packed up for the day. Ducking out of sight, heart beating furiously in her chest, Ushio peers around the door with Sumika beside her. It is the first time she has seen two girls kissing outside the pages of a story. Suddenly it is all Ushio can think about.

When it is the only thing Ushio talks about for a week -- the idea of kissing someone, of practicing kissing someone -- Sumika grows exasperated. “Can’t we discuss something else? I’ll take anything to be honest.”

“There’s a new curry bread special being offered at the cafeteria,” their friend, Kiyori, supplies helpfully.

“Anything but your insatiable appetite,” Sumika clarifies.

Kiyori shrugs and rips into yet another packet of bread. “I’m fresh out of ideas, then.”

“What’s wrong with kissing?” Ushio grouches, stabbing her chopsticks idly into her lunch.

With a sigh Sumika picks up a juice box and unwraps the plastic straw. “Nothing is wrong with it. You’re just so keen on the idea of kissing anything so long as it’s the same height, whereas I think -” For a moment Sumika pauses to take a sip of her drink. “I just think that so long as it’s with the person you love, any kiss would be fine.”

There are very few instances Ushio can think of where she would describe Sumika as bashful. This happens to be one of them. She spends the rest of the day and the ensuing evening puzzling over it until she realises why.

Gosh, she really could be thick at times.

The next day she tells Sumika to meet her in the classroom when the sun is beginning to set. Sumika gives her an odd, searching look, asking why, but Ushio only puts a finger to her lips and winks. It’s a surprise, after all. At that Sumika’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but she grumbles a confirmation that she will be there.

When the time arrives and they stand among the rows of empty desks, the plastic alien mask in Ushio’s hands feels thin. “You know,” she chides, “you could have just told me there was someone you like. We’re best friends! I like knowing things about you.”

If anything Sumika only looks bewildered, but there’s a latent panic in the slope of her broad shoulders that betrays her. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Triumphant in her own cleverness, Ushio reveals the mask. “I bought this so you can practice on me. I’m sorry I didn’t realise sooner. If I’d known, I would’ve kept my mouth shut. Making you uncomfortable is the last thing I want.”

Sumika continues to stare at her. The edges of her glasses slip down her nose before she fixes them back in place. It must be a trick of the light because cast in a fiery glow Sumika appears flushed and anxious.

Smiling, Ushio slips the mask over her own head. When she speaks the moisture in her words beads on the cool plastic near her mouth. “Go on, then.”

It is difficult to see through the narrow slits. The only thing Ushio can confidently make out is the bob of Sumika’s throat as she swallows. Sumika steps forward. She puts her hands on Ushio’s shoulders. She leans down. They sway together.

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

This couldn’t be love.

Ushio can’t quite place her finger on it, but something has changed. Their circle of friends expanding. Or rather Sumika’s circle of friends expanding. Ushio pushed increasingly to the side-lines without either of them realising it. She watches Sumika more and more often. She can’t explain why. Whenever Sumika meets her questioning gaze, Ushio smiles and for a while she thinks that everything is normal. Everything is fine. Nothing has changed.

Happening upon Sumika crouched over Aoi in the stairwell. Inexplicably crying. Convincing herself it is because Sumika reminded her of times in middle school she tries so often to forget -- classmates pinning her down, a fist drawn back. Yes, that’s it. That must be it.

When Lotte arrives Ushio can’t stop herself from gushing. This shouldn’t be a problem. This is what she does. An angel falls into her path, blazing, and Ushio swoons. Sumika should be fine with it. Except for some reason this time she isn’t. Neither of them are.

Tempers boil to the surface. They break open. The two of them hardly speak anymore. It is inevitable, Ushio tells herself. Long-standing friendships like theirs are bound to experience little wildfires. But when Sumika bursts out slamming her fist against the low pillar in the stairwell, Ushio can’t help but think those tears are her fault. She did this. Somehow she caused this pain.

Causing someone else pain is anathema to her. Ushio is so used to being on the receiving end she doesn’t even realise the repercussions of her actions until it’s far too late

  
Visiting Sumika while she’s sick. Carefully taking the tray of soup from Noe so that not a drop is spilled. Hearing the muffled sobs from Sumika’s room and staring guiltily at the closed door. Steam floats across her vision. She knocks and enters. She feeds Sumika spoonfuls of hot soup while her friend sniffles back tears.

Later, while she watches Sumika slumber, kneeling at her bedside, Ushio whispers. “I’m sorry.”

In her sleep Sumika sneezes.

With a watery laugh, Ushio murmurs. “How cute.”

Then freezes.

Quietly she removes herself from the room. She thanks Noe for letting her inside the house. She walks down the street towards her apartment. The cool wintry gale lashes at her jacket hems, her gloveless fingers, her curling hair. The echo of her footsteps rings dull and hollow down the street. All the way home Ushio doesn’t feel the cold. By the time she steps inside her apartment she is peeling off layers. Scarf. Jacket. Jumper. She is burning up from the inside.

This couldn’t possibly be love.

 

* * *

 

When morning comes she doesn’t get out of bed to ready herself for school. Norio knocks on the door before opening it and sticking his head inside. “Ushio? Are you still asleep?”

She is sitting atop the sheets. Somewhere along the way last night she had changed into pyjamas, though she cannot remember it. She wasn’t able to sleep a wink.

“I think -” Her voice sounds flat. She curls her bare feet beneath her, clutches her knees close. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

“You must have caught Sumika-chan's cold. Here.” He steps into the room and rummages through her untidy closet. Only a quarter of the space is actually reserved for clothes. The rest belongs to yet again more books. Pulling out a thick shawl, Norio drapes it around her shoulders. “I’m heading off, but I’ll ring the school before I go and tell them you’re out sick today. Try to get some rest.”

As he leaves, shutting the door behind him, Ushio fingers the tasselled edges of the shawl. She wants to tear it off. Everything is too hot. Instead she crawls beneath the covers and lays her head on the pillow in a simulation of sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sumika returns the visit while Ushio is sick. She knocks on the door and her voice sounds so cheery, so lively, Ushio wants to heave her blistered heart into her hands.

“Kazama! Hey! How are you feeling?”

She still uses Ushio’s last name sans-honorific, a fact which has galled since middle school. Ushio clutches the shawl closer. Tendrils of hair stick to the back of her neck with sweat. As if from a great distance she hears her own voice, high as the whine of a roman candle, shrinking at both ends. “I’m fine. You should go.”

“Hang on, why -?” Through the blockade of wood between them Ushio can hear Sumika’s voice dip to a low rough note. “I thought - I thought things between us were alright now. Kazama, please talk to me. I miss talking to you.”

Slowly, reluctantly Ushio opens the door. Despite claims that she was all healed up from the illness that plagued them both, Sumika’s cheeks appear wan in the low light. Her eyes are shaded. It is difficult to gauge her face.

A moment of weakness and Ushio falls right into it. She allows herself to lean forward, press her brow against Sumika’s chest and just breathe. Her hands fist around the corners of the shawl at her diaphragm, and every inhalation fans the bed of sparks scorching her throat raw.

_Disgusting._

With a strangled gasp Ushio jerks away, but Sumika’s face remains blank. Her tall frame crumples, knees folding, and Ushio watches in horror as Sumika’s breathing goes shallow, her heartbeat thready, collapsing to the ground. Ushio only meant to reach out and test Sumika’s temperature with the back of her knuckles -- she is burning up with fever -- but instead her hand moves down to cup Sumika’s cheek.

That’s right. This couldn’t possibly be love.

But when she kisses Sumika’s cheek, the certainty of the feeling coursing through her tastes like smoke.

Kiyori finds them there, pulling out her cell phone to ring Sumika’s father to come collect her and transport her back to bed. Ushio retreats to the safety of her empty apartment, saying she is unwell. Numbly she crosses to the balcony. She watches Sumika being carried home on her father’s broad back. She grips the railing in bloodless fingers.

Love always falls apart. Leaves her cold. She is used to it. She is able to swallow rejection from strangers, but this is the only person she doesn’t want to hear say the words.

Leaning on the railing, vision blurring to a liquid haze, Ushio is pulled back roughly. She had forgotten Norio was even home. He cradles her in his arms, gulping down lungfuls of air. “You promised -! You promised me you wouldn’t -!”

Startled, she gasps. “I wasn’t -!” she is still choking on tears. “I swear I wasn’t -!”

Her brother holds her painfully tight. Around her shoulders his arms tremble. When at last he speaks again, he leans back and his face breaks out into a brave watery smile. “Do you want to change schools again? We can move. Right now. It’s fine.”

Wiping her face, Ushio shakes her head. “No. I’ll stay.”

 

* * *

 

Ushio resolves herself to a tactic she hasn’t employed for years. With Sumika’s presence in her life she had no more need for disguises. She has always been ill-suited to them. If it means staying by Sumika’s side though, she will wear an array of masks. She will smile and dance. She will burn up and burn out. She will lie and lie and lie.

“Alright, what is going on between you two?” Tomoe has followed her onto the bus. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because we both know that’s not true.”

Ushio straightens in her seat and glowers to the best of her ability, but her glare only slides off Tomoe like slag shed from a crucible’s edge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult me.” Tomoe crosses her arms. The two of them lurch as the bus hits a pothole. Outside the world reels, a smudged blur through the rain-lashed windows.

Her cool unruffled poise makes Ushio’s blood boil. “You’re Sumi-chan’s friend, not mine. Why don’t you go ask her?”

“With you it always starts with her.” Tomoe’s reply is oblique.

Ushio’s mouth thins as she purses her lips. Of course Tomoe is right; she is far too perceptive. “Without her I wouldn’t last a second.” Ushio admits, sullen and contemptuous of herself.

“She doesn’t belong to you, you know. You need to learn how to stand on your own without her.”

Of course Ushio knows that, but hearing Tomoe say it aloud ignites something crisp and dry and kindled in the pit of her stomach, sends it sliding up like kerosene. “All those times I was hurting she was there. And yet I caused her pain, and I don’t know what to do! I don’t want anything to change!” Ushio is on her feet bristling with the force of her words. “I don’t want her to hate me! I don’t want to be separated from her! So, leave me alone! There’s nothing going on between us!”

The bus carries very few other people at this hour, but those passengers all stare. Ushio ignores them. She doesn’t care.

If Tomoe is taken aback in any way she doesn’t show it. A glimmer of something runs from her eyes like a pier out to sea, but the next moment vanishes. She gestures to the rest of the near-empty bus and says, “Murasame-san isn’t here. You’re hurting right now, and she isn’t here.”

Seething with impotent rage and sorrow at the truth of what Tomoe has said, Ushio yanks on the line hanging over the window, calling the bus to a halt. Without another words she gets off two stops too early. Sheets of ran douse her, yet she walks the rest of the way home.

 

* * *

 

“Is everything alright?” It is the fifth time Norio has asked that question of her in less than two days.

“I’m fine!” she snaps. “Why can’t everyone just leave me alone!”

His injured expression sends a lance right through her. She can’t stand the tense silence that settles between them. Gathering her homework into her arms, she storms into her room and slams the door.

 

* * *

 

She hates herself. She hates how easily she falls in love. She hates her glass-fired heart. She hates her height. She hates her fine-boned features and her humidity-sensitive hair. She hates that she loves women. She hates her glaring lack of normalcy.

In a fit of self-loathing, Ushio breaks her own arm while flinging about her worldly possessions. She slams stacks of books against the far wall. She pounds her fist against the floor until she hears something crack.

Norio enters through the front door to find the apartment in complete disarray. The next morning, he takes her to the hospital. Outside they eat a late breakfast, Ushio’s first meal for almost a full day and yet there is nothing of satiable hunger in her. Wearing a new clumsy cast, she struggles to handle her food, and she withers with shame when he has to help her with so simple a task.

“I’m sorry,” Ushio says. She balances the meal on her legs in order to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “For everything.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He studies her morose expression. “Do you want to take a break from school?”

Already she had rejected his offer to move, but she doesn’t have the strength to resist this temptation, this outlet for her own cowardice. “Yeah.”

The acceptance is out of her mouth when she looks up to see a familiar figure staggering towards them. Harsh sunlight glances down, bathing the park in pale hues. Sweltering beneath it Sumika’s heel catches on a lip of baked earth and she falls. Before she knows it herself, Ushio is on her feet and rushing over to stand before her.

“Aoi-san said -” Sumika gasps for breath. Her brow glistens with sweat. “-in hospital? Broken arm? I -” she uses her fingers to mime running “-all the way from school. But you’re alright!”

“Yes,” Ushio lies. “I’m alright. See?”

Rather than look at Ushio’s proffered arm, Sumika pulls her into a half-crouch so that she can envelop her in a relieved hug. Ushio tenses, but then Sumika’s hand is in her hair and she’s muttering, “Thank goodness you’re alright. Thank goodness.”

Closing her eyes, Ushio allows herself to sink into Sumika’s arms with a long shaky exhale. This is enough, she thinks, silent. For now, this is enough.

 

* * *

 

Tying the bow on her school uniform one-handed is much harder than it looks, Ushio decides. Most of her morning is dedicated to the effort, and when she finishes it still looks a little crooked. Regardless she steels herself and steps into the main room of the apartment. Norio is there, holding her schoolbag.

“I got dressed all by myself!” Ushio proclaims proudly. She lets him slip the bag over her good arm and onto her shoulder though.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks, settling the strap more firmly in place against her shoulder.

“No.” She does away with the lie she normally would have told. “But I’ll work on that.”

He contemplates her profile before shaking his head with a rueful grin. “Alright. You do that. Have a good day at school.”

When she steps out the front door, Lotte and Sumika are both there to greet her. The three of them walk to the bus stop together to meet up with the others. For the first time in what feels like an age, Ushio manages to hold a conversation with Sumika that isn’t laboured or a result of poor artifice. On the bus Ushio even manages to smile and the muscles slide naturally.

At school the first thing she does when she has a spare moment is find Tomoe. Bowing, she apologises for what she said to her not long ago, and for once she has the pleasure of seeing Tomoe look flustered. They sit together, leaning their backs against the square-linked fence.

“You’re looking better. Despite the obvious,” Tomoe gestures to Ushio’s arm.

Wiggling her fingers from where they poke out of the cast, Ushio grins. “It’s not so bad. Anyway, being out for a few days gave me some time to think about what you said. What I really wanted to tell you was: thank you. You helped settle a lot of what was troubling me.”

For a moment Tomoe just looks at her, and then she heaves a great sigh of relief and slumps down against the fence. “Thank goodness. I’m so glad this is all over -- you have no idea. Watching the two of you dance around each other like that was driving me mad, and I felt guilty for not intervening earlier. I still think I should have just told you both how you felt about each other.”

Ushio’s face screws up, nonplussed. “What -?”

Ignoring her, Tomoe forges on. “But I couldn’t do it, no matter how difficult it was to watch you hurt each other like that. It wasn’t my place. And -- well -- you seem to have gotten there on your own.”

“Tomoe-chan, what are you talking about?” Ushio shakes her head. “ _How we felt about each other?”_

Tomoe goes deathly still. Her eyes widen and she clamps her mouth shut.

“No way…” Ushio breathes. She can feel her cheeks burning as she understands what was meant. “You’re - you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Shit.” Tomoe mutters under her breath.

* * *

 

She walks home in a daze. Birds chirp in the trees. The air is bright and brisk and vernal. When she arrives at the apartment, Ushio flops straight onto her bed and tries to cool the rapid beating of her heart.

“Ushio?” Her brother cautiously intrudes into her space. Seeing her slumped over the edge of her bed, he gingerly lowers himself beside her and pats her head. “You know, things may look bad now but they really do get better. You shouldn't lose hope.”

“That’s not it.” The blood is thundering in her ears, and she leaps up, grasps his hands between her own. She can’t sit still. “She likes me. For once she likes me, too.”

“Really!” Norio rises to his feet, voice bright and elated.

“Really!”

“Ah! That’s great! That’s really great!” Twirling her around as though in a ballroom, he pulls her into a hug and lifts her off the ground so that her feet dangle until she laughs and thumps him on the shoulder in mock protest. Despite that he only lets her go when his cell phone rings, vibrating in his back pocket. As he sets her down, he digs the phone free and mutters. “Damn, I miss sock-slides.”

“Yeah, me too.”

 

* * *

 

Sumika invites her to Lotte’s birthday party, but Ushio has no idea what to buy. Kiyori is kind enough to accompany her to the mall in search of a gift, but both of them struggle for anything that might suit. The only thing that catches Ushio’s eye is a small stuffed bear they both know Lotte will hate. As they are leaving the store however, she spies a familiar looking plastic alien mask.

With a small secret smile, Ushio says over her shoulder, “Go on without me. I’ll be out in a moment.” And digging into her bag she pulls out her wallet.

All through the party the mask sears a hole into her bag and Ushio swears she can feel the heat of it. When someone accidentally trips over her bag, piled up with all the others in a corner of the room, she fumbles with her chopsticks while they are settling down for dinner.

“Do you need any help?” Sumika asks, pointing to her cast.

“No! I’m fine!” Recovering quickly, Ushio swaps to her good hand and handles the utensils with a deftness that belies hours of practice.

Later when the night is over Ushio leans over to pick up the bag, grimacing as she tries to get it over her shoulder with one hand. Everyone crowds the entryway as they make the initial movements to leave, but the goodbyes are many and night has truly fallen by the time they all make their slow departure. Sumika offers to walk her home. Lightheaded, Ushio accepts.

It is warm enough that her palms sweat -- or perhaps that is simply nerves. Between them the conversation flows easily, but Ushio has to keep from beaming too much as she slips her hands into Sumika’s and receives a snug squeeze in return. Once at the steps leading up to her apartment, Ushio stops, whirls around. She takes both of Sumika’s hands between her own and runs her thumb along the soft underside of Sumika’s wrist.

“So, have you realised yet?” She doesn’t look up, keeping her gaze lowered to observe their joined hands.

“Hmm?” Sumika hums. Her fingers twitch as Ushio runs a nail softly over the tendons of her wrist.

“I’ll give you a hint.” Removing her hands, Ushio reaches into her bag. “Lean down for me? And close your eyes.”

Face screwing up in confusion, Sumika nonetheless does as asked. When she is just the right height for her to reach, Ushio places the mask over her face and presses up on her toes. The cool smooth surface of the plastic tastes like cheap paint. With her eyes closed she feels rather than sees the tensing of Sumika’s broad shoulders. Then, whipping the mask away Ushio dares a peck on Sumika’s nose before taking a step back.

Turning Ushio waggles her fingers at Sumika’s stunned form. “Good night!”

She sprints up the stairs, taking the mask with her and hanging it on her bedroom wall. She sprawls in bed and looks at the mask there with a smile as bright and beaming as a road flare.

 

* * *

 

After school Ushio visits the doctor to get her cast taken off and is told she must perform a series of exercises every day in order to properly regain strength. She bounces with enthusiasm until the doctor hands her a soft splint she has to wear in the evening. With a groan, she takes it and slides it up to her elbow. At least showering will be easier now. She still misses taking long baths.

Outside Sumika greets her with a hand slipped between her own, warming her clever fingers with a touch. Flushing, Ushio wonders if perhaps now she could convince Sumika to let her take a bath at her house, if perhaps she could convince Sumika to even join her.

 

* * *

 

For hitting another student who spread horrible lies about Sumika, Mayu is suspended from school. In the classroom they have a talk about bullying, the teacher addressing them as a group. Ushio shits at her desk. The teacher isn’t looking at her. Nobody is looking at her. Still somehow she feels the cast of eyes flickering behind lacquered gazes, rhinestone-hard and glittering. Soot clogs her airways. She is suffocating.

When she sees the stricken expression on Ushio’s face, Sumika jumps up from her seat and pulls her into a hug. Startled, Ushio tenses at the sudden contact. Then she breathes.

“Let’s everyone settle down,” the teacher waves her notebook in the air. “Oy! That means you two! Very touching display, now please sit.”

Later the teacher tells the karate club that Sumika has been eliminated from the race for Student Council President on account of the latest incident. Seeing the downtrodden sag of everyone’s shoulders, Ushio offers herself. She puts her own name forward to run for the position. She runs. She expects to fail. She will forever be haunted by the notion that everyone at school despises her for being what she is. The votes pour in. She wins.

 

* * *

 

One day Norio comes home humming. It’s an old tune their parents used to listen to on the cassette player -- they hadn’t quite figured out how to purchase music digitally yet, and they had always been loath to rebuy all of their old favourites on CD. His clear baritone lacks that old crackle, but a few sparks of nostalgia leap at Ushio’s ankles.

“Good day?” she asks, putting down the knife she had been using to slice vegetables for dinner. Picking up the chopping board, she slides the thin bed of courgettes into a pan.

“You could say that.” He tosses his bag onto his computer chair and hums a few more bars. “I asked Ayae to marry me.”

“What!?” Dinner completely forgotten, Ushio whirls around, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh! Ohh! Do I get to be a bridesmaid?” Her voice squeaks and she claps her hands together in excitement.

Norio laughs. “I think that decision is up to Ayae. But I have a better plan.” He leans in, all conspiratorial, and says. “How about being my Best Man?”

She wrinkles her nose. “So long as I don’t have to wear a suit.” She taps her finger against her chin contemplatively. “Best Man? Or would I be the Best Sister?”

“Well, I think that goes without saying.”

 

* * *

 

Upon hearing that Norio is engaged and that Ushio has found someone, their grandmother visits. Ushio and her brother scramble to make the apartment vaguely presentable, but most of all they panic over their grandmother meeting their respective partners.

Arms full of books, shuffling them around so that they resemble a neater stack than before, Norio mutters half to himself, half aloud to Ushio. “Grandmother and Kineta-san are both so strong-willed. What if they hate each other?”

“You’re engaged to her. Can’t you start dropping the honorific?” Ushio grumbles. She scrubs at the cheap linoleum-swaddled kitchen with as much cleaning product and elbow-grease as she can spare, but nothing can make it truly sparkle.

He pales and fumbles with a book. “Oh, my god. When does it become appropriate for me to refer to her as Ayae? Is there a ritual? Do I call her Kineta-san in front of grandmother, or will they both find it overly formal?” His face goes a shade of sickly grey. “Will she be taking my name?”

“I don’t know! At least your relationship is normal!” Ushio’s arm works furiously, but the abrasive side of the sponge in her pink-gloved hands does little. “The last time grandmother and I spoke about girls, she told me to ‘give up on all that poppycock’ -- her words, not mine.”

“I’m calling Ayae. Or Kineta-san. Or - whatever.” Norio balances the books precariously on his knee with one hand, while with the other he reaches into his back pocket for his phone. As he does so, the books slip from his arm.

“Watch out!” Ushio yelps, but it’s too late. The books tumble and knock against a teetering pillar of volumes leaning against one wall. Both of them leap forward in an attempt to stabilise the imminent collapse, but in a crash they are buried beneath a sea of paperbacks.

Behind them the front door creaks open. Carrying a travel bag, their grandmother blinks down at them. When she speaks, her tone is dry, “I see not much has changed in my absence.”

In the end it goes better than either she or Norio could have anticipated. Sparks fly between their grandmother and Ayae, but after Norio leaves to escort his fiancée home, their grandmother grunts, “Good. She’ll keep him in line alright.”

When Sumika comes around for dinner on another night, she slants her eyes at Sumika and Ushio’s clasped hands beneath the table, but says nothing. Only when she and Ushio are putting away dishes later does she say. “I’m glad.” When Ushio cocks her head in confusion, her grandmother continues. “I’m glad to see you smiling.”

 

* * *

 

Graduation creeps up on them far too quickly. Ushio blinks, and the last few years of her life flicker into a chain of singular moments. She has applied to universities. She has attended student council meetings and been approached by fellow students seeking to file petitions or appeals. Every time it happens, even until the very end of her high school career, Ushio feels the flash of surprise trill through her. She wonders if when she is old and grey she will continue to expect people to approach her with ill-intent rather than guileless queries.

Opening the door to their old abandoned classroom for the last time, Ushio freezes up when she sees her name written on the blackboard. Broad streaks of chalk coat the green-tinted surface. Her breath catches in her chest and her head swims until she actually reads what it says.

_CONGRATULATIONS, YOU TWO!_

“Is something -? Oh!” Behind her Sumika gapes over Ushio’s head. “Oh.”

The initial bolt of panic and fear fizzles out, and Ushio heaves a trembling sigh of relief. A tenderness of feeling kindles, and she laughs faintly, incredulously. It appears she’s not the only one; beside her Sumika scrubs at her cheeks with her sleeve.

Wandering down the aisle of desks, they are engoldened in the amber haze of the setting sun. Nostalgic, Sumika pulls back the chair of her old desk only to go stock still.

“What is it?” Ushio asks.

Wordlessly Sumika holds up the plastic alien mask. The two of them look at the mask, then at one another, their faces bright, their gazes brighter.

“We should -” Ushio starts.

“Go?” Sumika finishes for her in a panic, already beginning to march away in her intense embarrassment at stumbling into this situation their friends had so clearly manufactured.

Reaching out, Ushio gently grabs Sumika’s arm, making her pause. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Shrugging at the awkwardness, Sumika sinks down into the chair, placing the mask on the desk beside her. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Because I do. It’s just -” she gestures to the room around them in exasperation. “Doesn’t this feel too perfect? We’ve definitely been set up!”

It doesn’t take much for Ushio to bend over and bring their mouths together. Somehow she had always imagined that such an act would take nothing short of immeasurable courage, but here and now gilded in the sun’s warm rays it is so easy. She brings her hand up to Sumika’s face. She traces the strong line of that jaw. Sumika grabs her shoulders, pulls her closer, and they kiss, together they go up in flames.

When she pulls away at last, their noses brushing, Ushio breathes, “If it’s with you, I honestly don’t care.”

 

* * *

 

With increasing frequency, they have been finding themselves tangled up in these types of situations. Now that she is allowed Ushio can’t seem to keep her hands off Sumika. The months building up were filled with held hands, gentle touches and averted gazes when they realised they were in a public place, like an exercise in which Ushio could confirm and reconfirm that this is alright, this is permitted, this is encouraged.

Perhaps it is because their plans for the future will tear them apart for a time -- Sumika pursuing a degree in kinesthesiology at one university while Ushio herself pursues the path of an editor at another. They can and will visit one another regularly, but the thought drives Ushio to distraction. She doesn’t want to be engaged in a commuter relationship. She wants Sumika here and now.

It is the summer before they leave for their separate studies, and Ushio has Sumika pinned to her bed. She never knew she had such a penchant for this, for pushing Sumika into chairs, for pressing her back against couch cushions, for straddling her across the waist and kissing her senseless.

Newlywed Norio and Ayae are away for the week on their honeymoon. Ushio and Sumika have the apartment to themselves. Ushio’s hands are roaming, fast and fervent. The two of them are flanked by a tower of books on all sides. As Ushio shifts her knee on the bed, one of the stacks gives a warning shudder that mirrors Sumika’s own. A book slides to the floor, unheeded.

Like always when she hears the breath catch in the back of Sumika’s throat, Ushio goes stock still. She breaks away, placing her hands on either side of Sumika’s head and steadying herself, trying and failing to douse the flame that races beneath her skin. The customary apology gets stuck on its way out and she is in the process of peeling herself away when hands come to rest on her waist, holding her in place.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Sumika says. “Stop, I mean.”

As Sumika’s warm calloused palms brush up and down her bare arms, Ushio shivers. Sumika is splayed out beneath her, hair an inky sprawl across the once crisp bedsheets, and Ushio can feel herself staring. No matter how hard she tries she can’t tear her gaze away. She realises she is allowed to look. Raking her teeth across her bottom lip, Ushio admits, “I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want.”

“And what about what I do want?” Sumika has begun to toy with the bottom button of Ushio’s short-sleeved shirt. “I’ve thought about you and nothing but you for years. So, please -- don’t stop.”

Swallowing past the dryness in her throat, Ushio sinks down once more, bending her arms to rest her weight on her elbows. From chest to calf their bodies are touching. When Ushio speaks her mouth trembles over Sumika’s. “You could change your mind and tell me to leave, you know.”

“I would never say that,” Sumika breathes. Then she smiles. “Besides, this is your house. Wouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Laughing, Ushio kisses her. They share a heat between them. Ushio has to prop herself up, leaning over her in a crouch to lift the t-shirt over Sumika’s head. The dark-framed glasses get snarled in the fabric, and Sumika splutters until both can be safely removed. With an apologetic grin Ushio murmurs, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Sumika’s torso contorts as she twists to deposit her glasses on the floor. Greeted with the naked expanse of skin, Ushio allows her hand to trail across the curve of a ribcage, counting bones until she reaches the dip of Sumika’s taut stomach. Immediately Sumika lets out an adorable squeak and recoils. “That tickles.”

Smothering a grin, Ushio makes her touch firmer. “I’ll remember that.”

When Sumika leans up to reach behind her own back and remove the plain black bra, Ushio traces a line to her chest, spreading her palm wide against the flat of Sumika’s breastbone. She resists the urge to push, instead keeping a solid sustained pressure there. Spreading her fingertips against Sumika’s collarbone, Ushio watches with darkened eyes as the bra falls away and is cast aside.

She ducks her head to rake her teeth down the column of Sumika’s throat, relishing the bob of muscle as her actions are met with a tense hiss and hands on her hips. She palms Sumika’s breasts, flicks a thumb across one peak, and circles slowly with the edge of her nail. Sumika twitches and gasps beneath her ministrations. She sinks back against the bed and Ushio follows, chasing after her mouth with a hard kiss. There is no space for sweetness now, not when they lie together atop a pyre, not when they have wanted this for so long.

“Can we take this off?” Sumika tugs restlessly at Ushio’s shirt. Three of the buttons have already been undone. Without hesitation Ushio straightens just long enough to divest herself of it and the bra beneath before returning to her present task.

Sumika’s hands smooth up either flank as Ushio kisses down her chest. She pants into warm skin and rolls their hips together. Sumika’s fingers clench at her shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and Ushio gives a reprimanding nip in reply. The friction of cloth between them makes her groan in frustration. She tugs at the waistband of Sumika’s jeans. Her own chequered skirt is ignored while Sumika allows her to unhook the denim and drag them down the long line of her legs. Ushio throws the jeans to one side where they land atop a pile of books along the far wall, dangling towards the floor.

She is kneeling between Sumika’s legs. She is tracing the bridge of her ankles. She is brushing her hands up Sumika’s calves to play at the fine grain of hair above her knees. All the while Sumika breathes heavily towards the ceiling, head flung back, sheets spilling between her fingers in a white-knuckled grasp.

“Are you alright?” Ushio asks, crouching on all fours and toying with the hollows around Sumika’s hipbones. When Sumika nods, Ushio hums. She settles herself more comfortably between her legs and sets her mouth to wandering. She peppers the sensitive skin of Sumika’s inner thighs with tongue and teeth until Sumika arches, her knees bowing to either side, and buries her hands in Ushio’s hair.

The first broad stroke of her tongue against the juncture of Sumika’s legs is met with a strangled moan. Carefully Ushio watches. Every reaction. Every flushed shudder. Every tilt of Sumika’s hips, grinding her mouth more firmly against the slick heat there. She reaches up with one hand to play with Sumika’s breasts, then drags her palm down the slow-heaving chest.

If she were more skilled, more experienced, Ushio would have done everything she could to make the moment last, but she’s not. She’s still unused to this. They both are. She consoles herself with the knowledge that they will have years to practice, to improve.

The noises Sumika makes build, spurring Ushio on. All too soon Sumika muffles a cry in the crook of her arm, nudging Ushio away with a shaking hand against her forehead. Sitting up, Ushio hastily wipes the lower half of her face with her forearm even as she fumbles at the zipper on the back of her skirt. She kicks the rest of her clothing free then shuffles forward. Grabbing Sumika by the shoulders Ushio urges her upright to crush their mouths together. Arms wind their way around her and Sumika presses their bodies close. Ushio scratches the back of Sumika’s head, earning her a deep rumbling note in return. Her kisses now are rushed, sloppy, but Ushio can’t bring herself to care. Her chest is a cavern of lit torches, and she is burning, burning --

“Sumi -” she pants, breathless. She takes one of Sumika’s hands and, impatient, guides it down. “Can you just -”

The gasp that wrenches from her lungs when Sumika fits her hand against her scorches. Blood rushes to the surface of her skin, dappling her cheeks, her neck, the plains between her shoulders. As she tilts her chin back, Sumika presses a staccato of open-mouthed kisses to her throat. Ushio gathers fistfuls of that long dark hair and clenches her teeth so hard that her jaw smarts.

Her knees find purchase in the mattress when she jerks her hips forward. A rhythm builds between them -- too slowly for Ushio’s taste. She claws at Sumika’s back. When two fingers slip inside her, Ushio fixes her teeth into Sumika’s shoulder, leaving bruises like emblems, like dark sunspots.

Her orgasm is accompanied by a note that is high, insistent, and more than a little desperate. When Sumika’s motions begin to slow, Ushio whines. “Again -- Keep going.”

Sumika blinks up at her in surprise. Ushio is still clenched around her fingers, buried up to the knuckles. As soon as Sumika starts to establish the tempo once more, a trembling groan rushes from Ushio’s lungs. Her thighs ache from where they support her, an acidic burn that races up to the base of her spine. Sumika ducks her head down to mouth at her breasts, and Ushio has to stifle a moan by biting down on her bottom lip until she tastes the warm tang of copper.

It doesn’t take long. Soon Ushio is straining, eyes squeezed shut. She places a shaking hand on Sumika’s wrist to still any further movement. Allowing herself a moment to recover, Ushio cups Sumika’s face and kisses her. It is lazy. It is languid. It warms her down to the very soles of her feet.

With a wince Ushio shifts her position so that she can drop onto her side and stretch out across the length of the bed with Sumika right next to her. They lie parallel to one another. A delicious ache lingers in Ushio’s thighs and she sighs, burrowing her head into Sumika’s shoulder. One of Sumika’s arms slips around her, holding her close.

Reaching up Ushio runs her fingertips lightly over the mass of bruises at Sumika’s neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t realise I was biting so hard.”

In response Sumika only shrugs, smiles. “Trust me, at the time I was not complaining. Far from it.”

“Was there something you didn’t like or would want me to do different next time?” Ushio presses.

They’re lying naked in bed together, skin still damp at the crooks of elbows and the back of knees, and yet Sumika flushes at the question. “I - Well, I mean -” She clears her throat and says in a soft voice, “Fingers next time might be nice. Not that that wasn’t nice!”

Sumika strokes the planes of Ushio’s back, and Ushio toys with a lock of Sumika’s black hair. They must both look a mussed tousled mess. Ushio huffs with laughter.

“What is it?” Sumika asks, prodding at her sides so that Ushio wriggles.

Shaking her head, Ushio explains. “It’s just -” She bites back a full smile from breaking across her face. “I never imagined I would have this.” At the puzzled frown she receives, Ushio clarifies. “A love that could be... _easy.”_

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sumika grumbles, a little taken aback if the furrow in her brow is any indication.

Ushio kisses the crease away. “I mean: loving you -- being in love with you -- is easy. And I’m very lucky.”

When Sumika’s reply is to look pleased, and then intensely embarrassed at the sincerity of Ushio’s delivery, Ushio laughs. She rolls Sumika over until she lies atop her supine form. “So,” Ushio hums, feeling slightly wicked. “Fingers, you said?”

 

* * *

 

It is the last week of summer. They are at the beach, all four of them: Ushio, Norio, Sumika, and Ayae. The trip was Norio’s idea, one last hurrah for the family before they all go their separate ways for a while. He and Ayae are planning on moving in together, and the apartment has already been packed up. In a stroke of supreme self-control Ushio has managed to narrow down her list of ‘Essential Books’ that will travel with her to university. It will still take a full truckload to transport all twelve boxes to her new place.

The waves crash clear as glass across the heated sand, then sweep back to the far blue glinting horizon. The view is a little fuzzy; it might be time for Ushio to get glasses. Ayae has set up an umbrella for shade, but both Ushio and her brother lie on towels in the sun. Norio’s hair slicks to his forehead from an earlier excursion into the waves, carrying a shrieking Ayae with him as he dashed to the water. When Sumika had gotten a gleam in her eye at the notion, Ushio had quashed it with a dangerous look and a warning, “Don’t you dare!”

Sumika had ignored her, resulting in a water fight the envy of epic tales, Ushio and Ayae rounding on their unfortunate partners and seizing a swift and brutal victory.

Now Ushio can feel her own hair curl wildly down her back, though she makes no attempt to tame it. Her feet are sand-speckled and her grin bright. She studies the small secret smile playing across Norio’s face as he watches his wife argue with Sumika over how to best go about building a sandcastle. “You look happy,” she remarks.

He beams at her. “I am. And you?”

The sun beats down a delicious heat and Ushio sprawls, her skin soaking in the liquid rays. A few paces away Sumika and Ayae get into a fiery tug-of-war over a red plastic bucket. With a small huff of laughter, Ushio tilts her head to lean it against Norio’s shoulder and the two of them study their significant others with identical smiles. “Yeah. I’m happy.”

 


End file.
